Farewell to 2022

Reflections on the new year

Every year, I'm grateful for the refresh that New Year’s brings. Setting resolutions, giving myself a new start, believing this year will be better than the last. New Year’s makes me an optimist, someone who believes in the possibility of rebirth and renewal, my own ability to change things. 

This time of year always leads me to reflect – on my resolutions, how I grew and changed, and what I accomplished. I achieved a lot this year. And yet, if I’m being honest, those accomplishments were never quite enough. I started doing comedy this year; I published work I’m proud of in dream publications. I’ve taken on a lot of work and done so many creative projects – to what end? It feels unfocused. It feels like not enough. And so I’ve finished 2022, a year in which I found so many new beginnings, burnt out. Creatively. In relationships. At work. I thought abundance would mean having everything I wanted. Turns out abundance has a lot to do with saying no – to relationships that don’t work, creative projects that don’t fulfill me, and jobs that don’t serve me. 

I’ve managed to burn myself out this year, over and over, by overloading my plate thinking if I just write more, if I just do 3 shows a week, if I just plan one more event, or add another item to my to-do list, or take on one more job, I’ll finally feel like enough. In November, I finally started saying no. I started making space in my life for rest. So I’m taking a step back from some things and refocusing my energies. 

I’ll be archiving this newsletter as of the end of 2022. While I have enjoyed writing (some of) these pieces, I often jot them off half-heartedly just to get something out. I started this newsletter with almost no bylines, and I’m concluding it with my work appearing on Electric Literature, Eater, Briarpatch, Bitch, and so many other great publications that I’ve long admired. I think the newsletter has served its purpose in my life. 

And if you’ve enjoyed reading my work here, 1) I appreciate you, 2) you can always email me to chat, and 3) I will still be writing and sharing my work on my website, Instagram, and maybe Twitter.

An aside on Twitter: Twitter was a huge part of my identity for so long. But I no longer feel like that person, and maybe if I’ve become someone else, I can let Twitter go. I’ve met wonderful people on Twitter, but it has become yet another way for others to project an identity onto me. It’s kind of like with stand-up – the people I talk to after shows have already created a narrative about me based only on a very narrow and performative version of myself they see on stage. That’s not anyone’s fault; it’s just the nature of the medium. Twitter, writing, comedy, this newsletter, whatever – none of it was meant to show the fullness of me. But Twitter feels like an outdated version of myself. It’s weird how much you can encounter old versions of yourself still out there, floating in people’s minds and on old accounts. Any version someone has of me in their head can never be the fullness of me, but at least I like the version of me that exists for, say, my best friends, my siblings, or my coworkers. The version of myself on Twitter.com? Meh. 

I can’t control how someone interprets and synthesizes the information they have about me. Still, I can manage that information by being more authentic, acting from my values, and having self-regard. I don’t think that’s something I authentically had until recently. And now, I get to snip away everything that isn’t part of that authentic me. Every unequal and unfulfilling relationship, every project that isn’t building me up, every man that asks me on a date only so he can vampirically steal my energy. It’s all gone. It doesn’t belong in 2023, baby.

I’m not suggesting it’ll be perfect because no year ever is. Unexpected things happen in life. You grow and change in ways you can never predict. But it gets better every year. 

With greater success and more responsibility come unique challenges. But those challenges are so fucking worth it. I’m so lucky to have a life where I can perform, write, play with my cat, dance in my friend’s living room, and laugh with my coworkers. I get to find moments of genuine joy and connection between rolling cutlery, answering emails, scooping the litter box, staring listlessly at my desktop, and waiting in the cold for the bus – that’s where real life happens. And all those ugly, in-between moments of wondering whether I’m a good person, or tamping down all my feelings because of an entitled customer, or having uncomfortable but necessary conversations – in the end, it leads to more moments of blissfully laughing too loud in restaurants and stumbling down city blocks in uncomfortable shoes and whispering late at night with my best friend. In the end, that’s all I’m going to care about. I can end this year thinking I accomplished a lot of things, and I will be thinking about those achievements, the essays I published, the shows I did, and the jobs I got. But mostly, I’m going to think about laughing and eating pizza with Laura at 3 am, getting sunburnt on Toronto Island, riding my bike over the High Level Bridge after seeing Cabaret and looking at the enormous full moon, and giggling over fries at the Next Act, and wandering through art galleries. All the joy I’ve had the opportunity to find in my life. That is the abundance I want for the new year.